Victoire
by shadows of memory
Summary: keep your eyes open


**_A/N: _I wonder if this counts as a songfic but it does have random quotes from Eyes Open by Taylor Swift.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter Series. I do not own Eyes Open by Taylor Swift.**

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_**(the tricky thing is yesterday we were just children)**_

The arrow whizzes past you. It flies above the target, missing by inches.

"Stupid, wayward arrow," you mutter and he laughs.

It's his turn and his arrow hits the X-ring as always.

"How do you _do_ that?" you ask and he laughs again.

"It's a bit hard to explain to frail, delicate girls such as you but-"

"I'll show _you_ frail," you say, twirling your wand menacingly. You pounce on him and he yelps.

The kiss is smooth and gentle, experienced, but he understands, and you don't need more.

_**(even when you're sleeping, keep your eyes open)**_

He is careless. You try to remind him of the dangers of being unprepared in these times. You know the state of the wizarding world. You know how dangerous it is for a Weasley to work in the Ministry, what with the unionization of the workers and the general dissatisfaction and rebellion taking place there, and the fact that Weasleys are seen to be one of the most avid supporters of the Ministry, especially after the war.

He does not know this prejudice as well as you do, seeing as he works as an Auror- the Auror office has been detached from the Ministry since the Second Wizarding War.

But when he smiles and says, "Live a little, Vic," and his skin creases around his eyes, you have no choice but to relent.

That night, you return home, overworked and demoralised, to find him lying in a pool of blood, his wand snapped into two, an arrow pierced into his stomach.

It is when you catch sight of him, who clung so tightly to life, staring at you with dull, glassy eyes, when you know.

(His last eye colour is blue.)

_**(everybody's waiting for you to break down)**_

You suffer through the funeral and Uncle Harry's blank gaze and your mother's overbearingly concerned questions. You suffer through Dom's frantic yelling as the reality of the situation sinks in for her and her scared whispers at night. You suffer through walking in on James snogging Roxanne. You suffer through watching your entire family go crazy.

You suffer but you will not suffer silently. Victoire Lupin is not a submissive person.

And so when you walk into the café of the Ministry the next day during your lunch hour, you make it a point to loiter near the area where the union members usually gather. When they catch sight of you, they stand up slowly and offer their condolences. While most of them are honestly sympathetic, you see a few with grief in their expressions and malice in their eyes.

"How are you doing, Miss Weasley?" one asks condescendingly

"I still go by Mrs Lupin," you say coldly and then, addressing the whole crowd around you, you laugh.

"I'm doing fine," you say, with that _brightbright, fakefake_ smile. "You're not getting rid of me that easily."

It is an acknowledgement, a warning and a battle cry.

_**(nobody comes to save you now)**_

The teardrops fall from your eyes like sweet honey, dense and slow but fast. Your face is red, flushed and ugly. Where is perfect little Victoire now? Where are the little kids who used to bully you for being prissy and stuck-up? Where is Teddy, who used to declare that you were his best friend and the coolest person ever?

You're the only one who can rescue yourself now.

_**(playing soldiers, just pretending)**_

"_I'm not kidding, Ted, how do you do it?" you ask, curiously. You are sixteen and standing in awe, your mouth agape, at his archery._

"_I'm awesome like that," he says, eyes sparkling. You cannot help but grin because it is part of what attracts you to him. The way his eyes shine, whether it be an enthusiastic glimmer or a mad evil glint, is simply alluring._

"_Teach me," you beg._

"_Nah. You just aren't capable of emulating my style as perfectly."_

_You make a move to smack his arm but your hand only meets air._

_Suddenly, you are falling._

You wake up screaming.

_**(heartbeat steady)**_

That night, you Apparate to the field where the both of you practiced together sometimes. You have his old bow in your hand and you start shooting, slightly manically at first. You are hopeless.

Suddenly, without warning, you break down. You are swimming in a sea of desperation and desolation, trying frantically to combat your emotions to regain whatever part of him you might have left inside of you. But you pull yourself together because he would have wanted you to be strong, even if denial is not strength.

Your breathing erratic, you pull the bowstring back for one last shot. The arrow flies, free, a breath of liberty, and hits the target. It may only have hit an outer ring but it is _something_ and you are grateful for it because you need all the somethings you can get.

You raise your brow and try, again and again and again.

The next morning, you walk into the Ministry with a satisfied smile, dark circles under your eyes and a bow slung across your back.

_**(they never thought you'd make it this far)**_

It becomes your habit, soon, to practice and then arrive at work with a bow slung across your back. It annoys your boss, who demands that you remove it, after which you point out that wands could be significantly more lethal. Grumbling but unwilling to irritate the recent widow, he relents. It unsettles your colleagues and frightens away the little friends you have but you like it. You are proud of this newfound power you have to create anxiety. And your friends may all betray you one day. No, you prefer to be this solitary tower of intimidation.

You have learnt the hard way never to let your guard down. And you know that they will only conquer you when hell freezes over.

_**(keep your aim locked)**_

You realize, one fine day, that you don't know what the hell you are doing. The realization is both heartbreaking and breathtaking. It seems that you are so focused on taking aim that you do not realize that you are facing the wrong direction. In fact, you do not know which direction is right.

You are confused.

You cannot go on this way.

"Victoire?" comes a voice. "Victoire?"

You almost want to believe it's Teddy. But this voice is softer, more mellow and also strangely familiar. You whirl around and are confronted with the image of Lysander Scamander.

Lysander Scamander, a known rebel supporter. Lysander Scamander, a family friend. Lysander Scamander, Lily's boyfriend.

Perhaps the line dividing good and bad is not so clear after all. Perhaps there is no such thing. Perhaps nobody is black or white and everybody is just a huge messy combination of both.

"I know who did it," he says carefully. There is no doubt that he knows that both of you know what he is talking about.

You know what to do.

"Who?" you ask, your voice steady.

Lysander eyes you warily- and rightfully, at that, seeing as he could be forsaking a friend.

"McLaggen," he says, his voice quivering slightly. Then he straightens and when he speaks again his voice is cold. "I will leave the rest to you."

For you know what to do.

_**(two steps ahead and staying on guard)**_

Dennis McLaggen uses security charms that are so weak and so few in number- _the arrogant fool_- that you wonder why nobody has ever tried to break into his house before. You traipse into his kitchen and idly pour yourself a cup of orange juice.

"_Victoire Weasley?_ What do you thin-"

"It's Lupin," you say calmly. "I think I've pointed that out to you before."

"What?" he exclaims, dumbfounded. "You're just going to prance into my house and- and-"

"And?" you ask, noticing him reaching for his wand. "Ah, Mr McLaggen. I'll spare you that trouble."

With that, you send an arrow flying across the room, sending him to his knees. His scream is delicious.

"Please, Weasley- I mean, Lupin. Please, Victoire. Please help me. Please-"

You silence him and help yourself to more orange juice. You know you will have nightmares about this, what with his eyes being the sickeningly deep blue that Teddy's were the night he died. But now, this feeling feels so right to you.

Your footsteps echo strangely in the room as you walk over to him and survey the arrow, its silver surface reflecting the wound.

"I got your heart, didn't I?" you murmur. "The X ring."

You smile a vindictive smile and the dying man watches you, horrified and submissive.

"Well, then, _Dennis,_ good game," you spit out, "but I won."

You leave him to die and no traces of you.

_**(the night goes dark)**_

The nightmares haunt you at night, with Teddy merging into Dennis, their features blurring into one.

Lysander does not say a thing.

Somehow, you almost wish he does because the silence seems more suffocating as the days pass.

You are almost glad that you wake up screaming because afraid is better than hollow.

_**(where everybody stands and keeps score)**_

You are not willing to suffer the silence any longer.

It is at one of your grandmother's parties. You don't remember what for anymore- it is pointless. You are a determined Weasley.

"Lysander," you say, walking up to him. "I have this idea."

And that is how One for Liberty is formed. It is an organisation for peace and you are the chief orator.

It takes the public a long time to trust you and a longer time to accept you. You don't think they will ever stop watching, scrutinising your every move.

But it is alright, for you are not hollow anymore.

_**(dreaming dreams with happy endings)**_

Your mother confronts you, a bit cautiously, about moving on.

"Perhaps you need to move on? Find someone else?" she questions.

"Maman, I am fine. But Teddy is the only one I can ever love," you state firmly.

She nods and you know she understands.

It is moments like these that remind you why you stopped yourself from joining Teddy that night.

It is moments like these when, if you strain your ears, you can hear the sound of one of his arrows slicing through air, and maybe his laughter.

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**A/N: I hope I got the facts right.** **Eh. This shit is crappy. Please review.**


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